Her Hands
by Adriana · 18 June 2026 · Family & Generations
Adriana's mother's hands know what no recipe says. Now arthritis. She still comes to the kitchen to watch and corrects with gestures — more heat, not yet, the onions wrong again. Adriana doesn't know what she'll do when those hands are no longer there to teach her.
My mother's hands know things mine don't. This is not sentiment — it's accurate. She learned to cook before there were timers or written recipes in our kitchen, by standing next to her own mother and watching, and what she learned is stored in her hands, not her head. Ask her how long a bacalhau à Brás should cook and she looks at you like the question doesn't make sense. She knows when it's done. Her hands know.
She has arthritis now, badly in the right hand. She still comes to the kitchen most mornings, not to cook but to watch, and sometimes she corrects something with a gesture rather than words — a slight angle of her wrist meaning: more heat, or not yet, or you've got the onions wrong again. I've spent forty years learning from those hands. I'm not sure what I'll do when they're not there to teach me.
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